


Resolve

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Mages (Dragon Age), Mages and Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-10-23 04:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17676659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven wants the Inquisition to help him hunt down Anders.Inquisitor Trevelyan, a mage himself, wants no part of it, but realizes he may not have a choice.





	1. Chapter 1

“All hail the Herald! Blessed of Andraste who walks among us!”

Dorian set down his book. Across the garden, Trevelyan had been minding his own business, when he had been surrounded by a small group of women. A Revered Mother had her arms raised over her head, while two other Chantry sisters had fallen on their knees. They lifted their voices in holy chant, praising the savior sent to them by the Maker.

Trevelyan stood before them with a ghastly smile, as if standing absolutely frozen might make him disappear. It was not unusual for people to break down in benediction around him, but he clearly had not been expecting this.

“Woah, who are they?” Varric was seated at the same table as Dorian, making annotation in a massive stack of papers that was his latest manuscript. “I thought all the Chantry skirts around here had gotten tired of embarrassing Trevelyan.”

“From their accent, I’d say these were from Starkhaven,” said Dorian.

“Sebastian must have sent them, then,” said Varric.

The sudden shift in the dwarf’s voice was telling. The Prince of Starkhaven had laid siege to Kirkwall for over a year now and he showed no signs of letting up. It was well known that Sebastian Vael had entreated the Inquisition more than once to lend him aid in hunting down the infamous apostate Anders, and each time the Inquisition had given him nothing but silence in return.  

“He probably sent his pet Chantry mothers to twist the Inquisitor’s arm,” said Varric. “That seems like the sort of annoying, desperate thing Sebastian would do.”  

“You would think he would take a hint,” said Dorian.

Varric squinted at the Chantry mother and her attendant sisters, who were now guiding Trevelyan to sit on a nearby mossy stone. “What are they doing now?”

They watched as one of the Chantry sisters tugged on Trevelyan’s left boot. The other poured a brass ewer of water over his foot and began washing it.

“Poor kid,” said Varric.  

Other people had begun to gather around to watch the little ceremony. Some tittered in amusement at the sight of Trevelyan sitting white-knuckled on the stone while his big, hairy feet were washed by a Chantry sister who was still singing to him.

Others clasped their hands together and mouthed the words under their breath. They gazed upon the Herald with shining eyes, with something like hunger on their faces.

It gave Dorian a chill. He was reminded of a recent expedition in the Exalted Plains, where the Inquisitor and his companions had spent weeks sealing rifts and clearing out the undead across the war-charred landscape. They had seen terrible things during those few weeks. A dead child at the bottom of a well. Gaunt and starving soldiers whose campfires smelled of human flesh. A house where a dead man and wife lay side by side in bed, a bottle of poison on the nightstand beside them.

The refugees were understandably slow to trust. They had gazed upon the Inquisition soldiers with resentment, and some even spat at Trevelyan as he rode into their tiny hamlets with his war party. 

But all that had changed when they caught sight of his hand.

A flash of the green in his palm, and the people fell to pieces. They came begging on their knees for blessings, reaching out to touch the hem of his cloak. They even cut hanks of fur from Trevelyan’s red hart, until the poor beast was practically bald. The simple folk whose lives had been ruined by war and famine looked to their Herald to save them, and Trevelyan, helpless, had touched them with shaking hands.

It was much harder to joke about the Herald's fate, after that. He was only a man, and a silly man at that: a lazy, daydreaming boy of twenty who had been destined for a lifetime in the Circle before all this happened. He was a pretty young lad with long, black hair and a shy smile, guileless, simple, and eager to please.

He was the symbol the people needed to believe in during their darkest hour, and gazing upon that angelic face, it was hard not to buy into it a little. He was their Herald. Their shining, beautiful savior.

"Will you sing with us at Evening Chant, Herald?” called a serving woman. 

“I believe that is up to Mother Giselle,” said Trevelyan, cringing a little as the Starkhaven sister rubbed between his toes.

“I see no harm in it,” said Mother Giselle, materializing from the back of the crowd. “It would do my heart good to hear the Herald add his voice to the faithful.”

There were pleas from the crowd. Before he could answer, the Revered Mother from Starkhaven broke in.

“Do you count song among your gifts, Your Worship?” she asked.

“I often sang at the Chantry when I was a boy,” said the Herald, “but it would be immodest to assume I have any real talent.”

“Oh, do not be modest on my account,” said the Starkhaven Mother. “Tell me, which Book do you enjoy best?”

There was a trap in the question. Trevelyan could smell it, but he was not skilled enough to see a way out.

“The Canticle of Andraste,” he said.

The Starkhaven Mother smiled. It was an easy answer. “I was hoping you might sing from Threnodies instead this evening. I have been praying much on the issue of the Mage-Templar War, and thought you might lend us guidance in the matter.”

A thread of electricity ran in the crowd. Everyone, including Dorian, was more awake now.

It was true that Trevelyan was their savior. He was pure. He was simple. He was the perfect, blessed Herald of Andraste.  

He was also a mage.

This last part the faithful were willing to forgive, so long as they were not reminded of it too often. Any mention of the Herald’s curse drew little winces from those who gazed upon him with adoration, as if the bubble of their daydream had just brushed against a blade of grass. That detail—that the Herald was the most despised of all the Maker’s creations—could easily turn a gathering of loving, adoring faithful into a grumbling horde, given the right push.

Trevelyan knew it, and the Revered Mother knew it, too.

“What guidance would that be?” he asked.

“You have brought the mages into the Inquisition as your allies,” said the Starkhaven Mother, “steering them toward a path of righteousness they strayed from in their rebellion. We all eagerly await your plans to return them to the Circle.”

Varric got up then. He was off across the grass, faster than Dorian thought his little legs could carry him. He disappeared through a side door into the great hall.

“In fact, none await it more eagerly than Prince Sebastian,” said the Mother. “He has dedicated the last year to a holy quest to avenge the death of Mother Elthina. As you know, she was slain by an apostate. We in Starkhaven share in his mourning, for Elthina was beloved to us as well. A song of Threnodies would bolster our spirits, and remind us of your commitment to justice.”

Trevelyan swallowed. They were all waiting for him to speak.

Dorian rose from his chair. Without thinking, he opened his mouth and shouted, “Starkhaven? Is that where those gaseous fish pies are made? It would certainly explain the odor in the garden—I thought had cat had crawled under a bush and died. You’ll forgive me if I move upwind.”

Every head turned toward him. The loving gazes that had been reserved for Trevelyan now hardened in disgust.

“Snake,” a serving woman hissed.

“I prefer to think of myself as a dragon,” said Dorian. “That would be the other half of my country’s flag—don’t worry, my dear woman, there are no words on flags, so even an illiterate shepherd would know that.”

Oh, how their faces curdled. It wasn’t bad enough that he was a Tevinter, but the more flair he gave himself, the more he stuck out his hip just so, the more they despised him. He was perfumed and coifed and impeccably dressed—everything a man in this part of the world was not meant to be, unless he was an Orlesian lord, and since Dorian was not an Orlesian lord, he fell directly into that dangerous category they had pegged him for since the day he arrived.

Deviant.

“Messere Pavus,” said Mother Giselle. “Your wit, as usual, does you no credit.”

“So, this is the Tevinter," said the Starkhaven Mother.

“Is there only the one?” said Dorian. He examined his nails. “Was something going on here? I do adore a good mob.”

The Starkhaven Mother’s eyes raked him up and down. No fool was she. Every detail of Dorian’s dress and manner she took in.

“Every war army needs its camp followers,” she said. “I suppose it comes as no surprise that the Inquisition operates in much the same way.”

“Oh, I’m much better dressed than a camp follower,” said Dorian. “And, dare I say, much more talented.”  

“Dorian is a one of my companions,” said Trevelyan, in a small voice. “He deserves your respect, Revered Mother.”

“Is that so?” said the Starkhaven mother. “And here I thought we were at war with Tevinter magisters. What a surprise to find one mincing about your garden. Though, I wonder, is it a surprise at all?”

There were intakes of breath. Trevelyan paled. The Inquisitor, for all his bravery on the battlefield, was a timid heart in a duel of words. Dorian, painfully, was aware once again of how much his presence in the Inquisition cost Trevelyan.  

“Now,” said the Revered Mother. “As for Threnodies—"

“Forgive me, Revered Mother!”

Josephine walked quickly across the lawn. Varric was a few paces behind her. “I do apologize for forgetting our appointment. I see you have already met the Herald.”

The crowd began to disperse at that. Trevelyan quickly tugged his boots back on, struggling with his socks now that his feet were damp. Josephine and the Revered Mother laughed and made small talk, and the tension in the air dissipated.

 _Well, that’s one political assassination averted_ , thought Dorian.

As turned away, Trevelyan caught his eye, and the gratitude in his eyes was almost painful to behold.

 _Thank you,_ the Inquisitor mouthed.

Dorian gave him an ironic salute. It would have been cruel to admit he had done it out of pity.


	2. Chapter 2

Trevelyan may have been spared from singing Threnodies at the Evening Chant, but that did not stop the Revered Mother from inviting him to attend her own leading of Threnodies for three nights in a row. 

Her motives were not difficult to discern. The Revered Mother had come from Starkhaven to persuade the Inquisition to help pious Prince Sebastian hunt down Anders, a man who had struck a vicious blow against the Chantry and helped start the mage rebellion. If the Inquisition devoted itself to the Prince's cause, it would all but symbolically align itself with the Chantry, and thereby disavow its allegiance to the rebel mages. Threnodies was the Book that most blatantly condemned magic and blamed mages for the fall of man, and it certainly set an awkward mood within Skyhold. 

Disconcertingly, most of the Inner Circle didn't seem to mind. 

“Anders is a terrorist,” Vivienne told Dorian on her balcony. “A man who blew up a building and got hailed as a revolutionary for it. Capturing him will send a strong message to the other rebels that the only thing abominations and apostates deserve is a strong noose.”  

“Good,” said Sera, shooting arrow after arrow into the groin area of the straw dummy set up in the yard. “I mean, Anders is one of the bad guys, right? If not for him, the mages would have stayed in their cages. That’s what people want, yeah?”

“Kill a guy like that, he just becomes a martyr,” said Bull, cutting the foam off the top of his beer with a knife. “Better to do it in secret, so no one gets inspired by him dying. That way he can’t hurt anyone else, the Prince stays happy, and mages can waste time wondering.”

Cassandra, to Dorian’s surprise, was the most contemplative. “I investigated Anders,” she told him, over a drink they shared in the loft of the smithee. “His lover was a man named Karl Thekla. Karl was sent to Kirkwall, where he was made tranquil. The reasons for the rite being performed on him are not clear.”

“That sort of thing happens often down here?” asked Dorian.

“Templars have only ever been human, and bear the mistakes of being human as well,” said Cassandra. “The Seekers believed Anders’ motives for blowing up the Chantry were purely political. If the Templar Order was not corrupt, they would have simply executed him for his crimes. Instead, Meredith Stannard proved his point. She ordered the deaths of thousands of innocent mages based solely on the actions of one man. But I wonder…”

“You wonder if she had the right idea?” asked Dorian, ironically.

“No. The Chantry was the place where Karl was made Tranquil. I wonder if Anders destroyed it because he could not look at it without being reminded of what had been done to him.”

She was quiet for a long time.

“When I think of the Chantry, I feel peace, belonging. I feel a quiet in the depths of my soul that is like true faith realized. But that is not what everyone feels. When Anders thought of the Chantry, all he felt was anger and fear.”

“Do you think Trevelyan will agree to help Prince Sebastian hunt him down?” asked Dorian.

"I think if it were up to the Inquisitor, he would refuse him in a heartbeat."

"But?"

"He is young and inexperienced, and will do what Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen tell him to do. They hold the true power, and what they want for the Inquisition is very different from what Trevelyan wants." 

How pitiful. Dorian felt even worse for the beautiful boy with the curtains of black hair. “Surely they won't throw away the good faith of the mages just to appease Starkhaven?”

“It depends entirely on what Starkhaven is willing to offer them," said Cassandra.

Dorian went for a walk after that. His head was buzzing with wine, and he longed for company other than grim Cassandra Pentaghast. There were plenty of men in Skyhold who he could bed, if he wished. He was considering a list of them when he walked past a man praying at a small shrine to Andraste in the gardens.

“Maker, guide the Herald to aid Prince Vael in his holy quest. Maker, guide him not to succumb to the magic inside him that he must always be at war with. Maker, give him strength against demons. Guide his hand to bring the mages back into your holy order.”

“Oh, that’s enough,” Dorian told himself. Feeling homesick, he wandered back to the Herald’s Rest tavern, where he found a hairy bartender to keep his glass filled long enough to forget about politics for an evening.  

 

* * *

 

"I don't understand why you have to be so difficult." 

Dorian looked up from his book. The sound of arguing echoed around the library. It sounded as if it coming from the hallway that adjoined the library rotunda to the great hall.

"Difficult? I'm difficult for wanting us to consider the repercussions of climbing into bed with these people?"

Patrons were coming out of the library stacks to listen. The first voice had belonged to Cullen. The second voice—was Trevelyan’s.

"All I'm saying is that you need to consider what's on the table. They are a powerful city," said Cullen. 

"You think I don't know that?" said Trevelyan. 

"Not from the way you're acting."  

Dorian set down his book and went to the railing. The words were muffled, but Trevelyan was angrier than Dorian had ever heard him.

"We're here to help you," said Cullen. "Please, lower your voice."

"Then help me. Unless you're just agreeing with them because you wish they had come along sooner, before I went and ruined your organization's precious image by allying us with the mages at Redcliffe-" 

_"Hold your tongue!"_

Abruptly, the shouting cut off. Everyone listened to the ringing silence for a moment, before a storm of whispers blew up around the library. 

Dorian returned uneasily to his armchair. Hearing Trevelyan raise his voice like that was disturbing. To hear him fight in public with his military commander was even more disturbing. It suddenly became impossible to concentrate on Eldevir's Nineteen Applications for Giant's Toe. He forced himself to focus on the words, but his mind kept scattering them. He was unaware of the sound of footfalls until they were right beside him.  

“Hi.”

Dorian startled. Trevelyan was leaning against the bookshelf next to Dorian's armchair. To his knowledge, the Herald had never graced him with his presence like this, excepting that one embarrassing situation with his father. Everyone in the library was pretending, badly, not to be listening. 

“Can I sit here?” asked Trevelyan.

The Inquisitor was trembling all over. His face was pale. “It is your castle, Your Worship,” said Dorian.

Trevelyan made a strange noise and sat down on the rug across from him.

“Who exactly are you hiding from?” asked Dorian.

“Everyone,” said Trevelyan.

"I see." Dorian toyed with the frayed edges of his book. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that little spat we all just overheard, would it?"

"Everyone heard that?" 

"We would have had to have been deaf not do." 

Trevelyan ran a hand through his hair. "Cullen was just trying to be civil. I'm afraid my civility has worn a bit thin lately." 

"What exactly is he upset about?" 

"That I'm dragging my feet with the Starkhaven delegation. He thinks Prince Sebastian would make a fine ally. He eats up every word Ramira says with a spoon."  

"Ramira is the Revered Mother?"

"Yes. Apparently me being wary of her intentions counts as being 'difficult.''"  

Dorian frowned. He couldn't imagine anyone less 'difficult' than Trevelyan. “I take it our Marcher friends have been less than courteous?"  

“Oh, not at all,” said Trevelyan. “They simply want our army to help them conquer a neighboring city-state, our stonemasons to rebuild their Circle, and our best spies to track down an apostate who may or may not currently be hiding in the sewers under Kirkwall." 

That was a lot of information to take in. Dorian grasped at the easiest straw. “What happened to their old Circle?”

“It burned down some years ago. Apparently, ever since then the Starkhaveners have been terrified that mages will steal into their windows at night to perform blood rituals on their children.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “You’ll forgive me saying so, but you people are terribly backwards.”

Trevelyan laughed. “How do you do it?” 

“How do I do what?”

“Be yourself? You’re not afraid of what anyone thinks. You do what you want, and even if everyone hates you, you don’t care. How are you so brave?”

The word was like a shove in the chest. Brave was not the word Dorain would have chosen to describe for himself. Foolish, headstrong, defiant maybe, but never brave.

“I suppose,” said Dorian, choosing his words carefully, “I simply weigh what it would cost to not be myself. The price is always higher than the price of being me.”

Trevelyan rested his brow against his knee.  “I’m really glad you’re here, Dorian.”

“Me?” Dorian could barely make sense of the compliment. He had been with the Inquisition for almost a year, and in that time he had hardly accomplished anything, aside from fighting demons and organizing Skyhold’s pitiful excuse for a library. The idea that his contribution counted for anything was laughable. “I hardly know what you mean.”

Trevelyan stood up. In his beige tunic, he looked like an oversized boy who had woken up rumpled from his nap. His hair had slipped loose from its string, and fell in wavy curtains around his face. He was handsome, this young Herald, and very scared. Dorian did not want to think what it said about him that the sight of this grateful, shy young man made him instantly hard.

“Just—thank you.” Trevelyan stepped out of the shelves. For a moment, it seemed like he was about to turn back, but he kept walking, back down the steps the lower level of the tower.

 

* * *

 

Dorian had trouble sleeping that night. There were rumors flying all around Skyhold about trouble with the Starkhaven delegation, but all he could think about was Trevelyan’s long, sad face.

The Inquisitor was almost ten years younger than Dorian. That alone made him feel like a lech. But Trevelyan was comely, in his sad, uncertain way. He also kept himself very clean, which went a long way in Dorian’s book.

 _You’re lonely,_ Dorian thought to himself, alone in his cold bed. _Go down to the tavern, find someone to give you a tumble, and get it out of your head._

He did no such thing. Increasingly, his diversions with the men of Skyhold left him feeling listless and drained. The men of the south might not have been as ashamed as the men of Tevinter, but they still managed to make him feel cheap in a way that cut right to his core. He was tired of being used and tossed aside, and he certainly didn't want to spend the rest of his life being roughly handled in the dark corners of smoky bars.

It was under this rationale that he was finally able to close his eyes and imagine wrapping his arms around Trevelyan. As much as his libido urged him to take the fantasy further—the remove dream clothes and fall down on a dream bed—the fantasy of sustained warmth between himself and the younger man held him in place. He could feel the gentle kisses along his neck, imagine the warm press of flesh as the embrace went on and on.

 _You have a problem,_ he told himself. _You think everyone who’s nice to you is in love with you. Do you have any idea how desperate that is?_

 _Oh hush,_ he thought, and fell asleep to the fantasy of pressing his mouth to the soft shell of Trevelyan’s ear.

 

* * *

 

The trouble with Starkhaven dragged into the following week. Mother Ramira continued to preach about the sinfulness of magic from the pulpit in Skyhold's chantry, and her sisters-in-waiting continued to hound the Inquisitor, petitioning him for a meeting that he always managed to put off. The rebel mages failed to understand why the Inquisitor did not simply send the Revered Mother away, and the faithful did not understand why he was reluctant to embrace such an important ally. 

“He's in a rough spot," said Varric, at his work desk. "Anyone can see that." 

"You're from Kirkwall," said Dorian. "This can't be easy for you, either." 

"No, but Kirkwall has been in a bind for a long time." Varric sighed. "Part of me wonders if helping Sebastian hunt down Anders isn't the right thing to do. If it gets him out of Kirkwall faster and breaks the siege, fewer people will suffer in the long run."

"No love lost for your old friend?" 

"Anders is not my friend." 

"I see. And what about the mages?" 

Varric dipped his quill. "What about them?"

"It doesn't bother you that allying us with a pious mage-hater might contradict the Inquisition's sworn allegiance to the rebels?" 

"I have friends who are mages," said Varric. "They're weird, and I love them, but I wouldn't put the needs of a few thousand mages before the needs of hundreds of thousands of normal people."

"Why, _thank_ you, Varric."

The dwarf blinked at him. "You know, I sometimes forget with you."

"Forget what?"

"That you're a mage. You're not cringey and paranoid like the Circle mages, and you're not pissed off all the time like the apostates. You're just you."

Dorian suddenly wondered if that was how the rest of the Inquisition saw him- not as an Enchanter of an Imperial Circle or as a trained necromancer, but as a pampered noble who could at any time pack up his bags and return home to his decadent Tevinter life. It would certainly explain why they felt comfortable talking to him about magical politics as if they had nothing to do with him.

"Whatever gets decided, it's out of our control," said Varric, sprinkling sand over the fresh pages. He closed the book carefully. "I gotta go down to the stables and see if the tanner's fixed my saddle."

"That the one the ogre smashed in the Emerald Graves after it flattened your war nug?"  

"Yeah. Poor Betsy." Varric hopped down from his chair. "Wanna come?" 

Dorian shrugged and followed.

 

* * *

 

The wind was blustery as they stepped out of the great hall and into the brisk afternoon, the smell of early spring dandelion and angelica floating up from the weedy grass around the staircase as they descended into the yard. They were starting down the side staircase to the lower yard when a raised voice caught Dorian's ear.

"Praise Andraste, Bride of the Maker who delivered us into a golden age!" 

Down below, in the yard where the wounded had temporarily been laid out when the Inquisition first arrived at Skyhold, was Mother Ramira. Her eyes were raised heavenward, her arms outstretched to the sky. A small crowd of nobles and merchants had gathered around her. 

"Andraste sent her Herald to deliver us from the tyranny of Tevinter. Our Beloved Inquisitor defends the faithful and carries the ever-burning torch of the Chantry in her name!"

She pointed, and the crowd turned its head to where Trevelyan, Cullen, and Josephine were speaking to one of the merchants at a nearby stall. Trevelyan sent Josephine a worried look, but Josephine was already stepping forward. "Good morning, Revered Mother. We had no idea you would be holding congregation in the yard this morning."

"A sworn Mother of the Chantry can hold congregation anywhere," said Ramira, "for the Maker made the world his first Chantry, where His song may spread to any willing to listen. But come, our Herald has been elusive as of late. You would think that I was a serpent ready to bite his heel."

Josephine's smile never cracked. "I apologize and do beg your patience, Mother Ramira. The Inquisitor will meet with you in time."

"Is His Worship so pressed with the sale of apples that he cannot wait on a Revered Mother of Starkhaven?"

"His Worship sees to his own time as he sees fit," said Josephine. "And all the faithful are worthy in his eyes, which is a notion even you would find agreeable."

Ramira's lips pinched. Her eyes crawled over Josephine to where Trevelyan stood, nervous and stiff beside Cullen.

"My Lord Inquisitor," she said. "The Prince of Starkhaven has sent you a gift."

It was then that Dorian noticed the object besides her. It was covered with a plum velvet cloth, and shaped like there was a child standing underneath it. 

"I believe your people are curious to see Prince Sebastian's charity," said Ramira. 

The crowd made encouraging noises. "I see no harm in it," said Cullen. Trevelyan shot him a look so furious that it was a miracle he managed to hide it.  

"As Revered Mother of Starkhaven, loyal servant of His Highness Prince Sebastian Vael, it is my honor to present this gift to the Inquisition."

Two sisters stepped forward and lifted the cloth. Underneath it was a small statue, beautifully carved from pink granite and clearly designed for someone's garden. It depicted Andraste driving her sword into a screaming mage. 

The nobles and merchants clapped.

"This sculpture was carved by none other than the grand master Frederique Demitrou. Its stone came from Starkhaven's own royal quarries," said Ramira. 

"Marvelous!" said Josephine. "Such lifelike expressions!"

Trevelyan said nothing. He looked faintly green.

"The subject is 'Andraste Slaying the Magister,'" said Ramira. "It had fallen out of style, but as of late has come back into fashion." 

"The Inquisitor is overwhelmed by the sheer artistry of this gift," said Josephine. "I'm sure he will spend many days in holy contemplation of it." She gave a curtsy. "You humble us with your patronage. This statue will look marvelous in our garden." 

"I believe it would be better served right here," said Ramira. 

The suggestion would have been laughable had it not been nonsensical. The lower yard was thick with horse dung and hundreds of muddy footprints. It was the site of traffic and commerce in the castle, not contemplation. 

"Surely such a beautiful piece would be better viewed among gentler surroundings," said Josephine. "We would not want it to be unduly soiled-"

"On the contrary," said Ramira. "I believe it would be best served at the gate of your castle. That way, every penitent who comes seeking shelter may receive Andraste's grace. No frail maiden to be hidden away is She, but a warrior. Her place is here, on the front lines, where all may look upon Her." 

"I can see the wisdom in that," said Cullen.

"I imagine you would." 

The crowd turned. Dorian turned, too. Grand Enchanter Fiona was standing on the stairs behind him. She brushed past him and stepped down into the muddy yard.

"I wonder what other message you might be trying to send with this gift," said Fiona, wading into the crowd. The human merchants loomed over her, the men staring right into her face as she passed. "It is an interesting subject." 

"It seemed appropriate, given who we are at war with," said Ramira.

"And who would that be?" said Fiona. "I imagine you and I have very different ideas of who counts as an enemy."

"Surely the magister who seeks to end all life is an enemy to everyone. Unless a return to the glories of Tevinter of Old appeals to you?"

"It does not."

"Are you so certain? Is not a life of wanton freedom what the rebel mages want?" Ramira turned to Trevelyan. "First a Tevinter necromancer as a companion, now a confused old apostate as one of your staunchest allies. Is this truly what the Inquisition has to offer?" 

Trevelyan opened his mouth and closed it. 

"I arrived here just in time," said Ramira. "The Inquisition deserves better guidance as it strives to purge evil from this world."

"Evil," said Fiona. "Is that what this statue is meant to symbolize? A purging of evil?"

"What else?" said Ramira. "Andraste drove the magisters to their knees. She freed the faithful and punished tyrants who used their corrupted magic to rule over man."

"That is one way to understand history," said Fiona. "Some might look upon this statue and think what you truly wish to purge is not evil, but all magekind. That is my impression, at least. Your Prince could just as easily have commissioned a statue of mages fighting alongside Inquisition soldiers, and instead he sent us a statue of Andraste killing a mage, during a war which may very well decide whether the Chantry has a right to murder mages on a whim."

"Why, Grand Enchanter! The Maker smiles on all his children, including the mages. You yourself were educated and protected within a Circle. You would not be alive here today if the Chantry believed mages deserved to die." 

"Death comes in may forms," said Fiona. "Some slower than others." 

"None so quickly as fireball or a bolt of lightning," said Ramira.

There were murmurs from the crowd. "I have no hope of convincing you of the suffering of my people," said Fiona. "You have already decided my word counts for nothing. But Inquisitor-" Fiona turned to Trevelyan. "You cannot allow this statue to be placed in front of Skyhold's gate. Every mage who seeks refuge here will see it and know what it means. _You_ know what it means." 

"Grand Enchanter," said Josephine, "I hear your concerns, I do, and I believe we can reach a reasonable compromise if we take this matter to my office-"

"I was not speaking to you," said Fiona. "Inquisitor Trevelyan." 

Trevelyan stared at the dirt.

"Inquisitor," she said again, taking a step toward him. "Look at me."

Trevelyan lifted his eyes. 

"I am asking on behalf of my people, of your people," said Fiona. "You promised us the Inquisition would be different. We trusted you to foster understanding. I cannot tell you how much it distresses us to see you indulging zealots who would throw us all back in towers if they had a chance. I am begging you, please." 

"Grand Enchanter, if we could take this inside," said Josephine.

"Inquisitor," said Fiona. " _Max_." 

Trevelyan pushed past her. He shoved his way through the crowd and darted up the steps. He was so busy looking at his feet that he nearly collided with Dorian. 

Their eyes met, and Trevelyan quickly fled. 

"It must have been something he ate," said Cullen, lamely. The crowd's murmuring grew louder. Fiona stared after the retreating Inquisitor with such shame that Dorian wanted to weep for it. 

"So, uh." Varric rubbed the back of his neck. "Still want to get my saddle?"  


	3. Chapter 3

The statue was placed at the base of the staircase leading from the lower yard to the great hall. Every noble, merchant, servant, and soldier had to pass it to get into the castle, and within a day it became a habit for anyone walking past to rub Andraste on her pink granite head. "The Maid and the Mage," was what it was known colloquially around Skyhold and, less politely, "the Rape of the Robe."

Dorian could just see the statue from his library window. It tugged at his attention while he tried to read, like a poke in the side of the head. He had spent enough hours watching visitors walk past it to know there was sharp difference between the way mundanes reacted to the statue and the way mages did. The mundanes barely paid it any attention, while the mages turned their heads pointedly away as if it gave off a stench. 

"I cannot believe they left the statue there," said Dorian. "They all but acquiesced to that woman's demands and in doing so threw the rebel mages completely under the cart." 

"It's a statue of Andraste, Dorian," said Blackwall, splitting a piece of firewood with his axe.  

Dorian sat on the edge of a tree stump, flicking at any ants that came near him. "It's a statue of Andraste killing a mage. Even _you_ can read the subtext in that."

"Maybe, but as it stands the Inquisition needs Starkhaven. If that means the mages have to put up with one statue in one courtyard, I think they're more than capable of swallowing it." 

"Funny, how rarely anyone else is called upon to swallow the price of diplomacy," said Dorian. 

Blackwall let the axe thud to the dirt. "What do you expect Trevelyan to do? Turn away an alliance that could mean the difference between defeat and victory? No, even he can see the folly in that, and his advisors see it even more clearly than he does." 

Dorian threw his hands up and left. It was increasingly vexing to argue politics around Skyhold. Everyone seemed to agree that the rebels had been slighted in a significant way, but no one cared enough to actually do anything about it. Dorian wondered if he was getting a small taste of what it would have been like to grow up as a mage in the south.

If nothing else, it was clear that power had shifted. Fiona had been publicly shamed, and Trevelyan, in the moment when he should have defended her, had fled. The Revered Mother had read him right. When pressure was applied, Trevelyan would cave, and if he could not be bothered to defend the mages, why should anyone else? 

 

* * *

 

Life returned to its uneasy rhythm. Soldiers and scouts from the Hinterlands rode in and out of the castle gates, spies and ravens returned with missives from all over Thedas, and Mother Ramira continued to sing the Chant to increasingly fervent crowds. 

One evening, Dorian walked into the great hall to find every banner replaced with the stag of Starkhaven. There were more nobles seated at the Inquisitor's table than usual and even more than a few Chantry sisters. 

"What's this about?" he asked a passing servant.

"There's to be a dinner tonight in honor of the Revered Mother," said the elf, balancing a tower of plates. "Supposed to be some sort of announcement."

Dorian's stomach dropped. He scanned the high table for any sign of Trevelyan, but the Inquisitor's seat was empty. Unsettled, he made his way to the table where Varric, Bull, and Sera were already starting on the ale.

"This is all very festive," he said. He raised his glass and a serving man filled it to the brim. "Does anyone know the occasion?" 

"Not a clue," said Varric. "Though if I had to guess, the stalemate's been broken." 

"You think so?" said Dorian.

"They wouldn't pull out all the stops like this otherwise. Plus, Cullen and Josephine have been taking an awful lot of long walks around the garden with Mother Ramira. All signs point to us climbing into bed with Starkhaven." 

"Has anyone seen Fiona lately?" asked Dorian.

"Grand Enchanter?" said Varric. "Nah. The mages have been holed up in their tower for the last three days. If I had to take a bet, not many of them will show up tonight." 

"They'll get over it," said Bull.

" _If_ that's what all this means," said Dorian, feeling foolish as he did so. "It could be that Ramira's being ceremoniously shown the door." 

"Yeah, right." Sera broke off a heel of black bread and slathered it in butter. "But I wouldn't mind if she was. Ever since she got here, it's been nothing but fish and egg pies. Smells like unwashed you-knows."  

There was a sound of benches scraping back. Dorian rose with everyone else, and turned to see Trevelyan stepping out of the doorway of his tower, Mother Ramira and Josephine close behind him. The Inquisitor raised a hand and gave a pained smile. 

"You may sit," he called, and everyone did. 

The servers marched out from the kitchens with their trays of food. Dorian peered around the serving girl ladling roasted asparagus on his plate. It was the first time the Inquisitor had attended dinner since the statue incident, and he looked more than a little ill. Mother Ramira commanded his full attention, but Dorian did not miss the glance Trevelyan stole to the empty table where Fiona and her apprentices usually sat.

Dorian ate as sparingly as possible. He kept craning his head up to the high table, watching as Cullen leaned into Trevelyan's space to better talk to Ramira. Trevelyan had barely touched his food, either.

"You'll get a crick in your neck if you keep gawking like that," said Bull, through a mouthful of fish and egg pie.

"You've got a tailfin sticking out of your gullet," said Dorian, and kept watching.

"Relax." Bull gave him a bone-rattling slap on the back. "What's the worst that can happen?"

Dorian didn't answer that. 

After the main course was cleared, dessert was brought out: raspberry currant with whipped cream drizzled with melted black chocolate from Antiva. As everyone tucked in, Josephine stood and tinged her glass with a fork. 

"Tonight, we honor our dearest friend and guest, Revered Mother Ramira of Starkhaven."

The nobles applauded politely. The Revered Mother bowed her head.

"She joins us during a terrible time," said Josephine. "Those of us who have had the pleasure of hearing her sing the Chant this past week have no doubt marked the Revered Mother's dedication to peace, as well as her conviction to do whatever is necessary to end this war. The innocents who have suffered at Corypheus's hands have cried out to her in their darkest hour, and she has answered with grace and compassion."

"Unless that innocent is a mage," muttered Dorian, and was hushed.

"Mother Ramira comes not only as an ambassador of the Chantry, but also of as a friend of one of its most pious servants, Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven. We are proud to announce that the Inquisition had agreed to enter a formal alliance with Starkhaven as of today."

There was wild applause. The nobles cheered and stomped their feet.  

"We will begin formal negotiations tomorrow," said Josephine. "We look forward to a shared victory." 

Ramira stood and raised her hands. "Together, we will wipe the scourge of Corypheus from Thedas. You have my word that Starkhaven will stop at nothing until Chantry law has been reestablished, and all who threaten it are put in their rightful graves."  

The applause reached a deafening level. Toasts were being made between merchants across the hall. As the din went on, Trevelyan leaned over and whispered something to Josephine and showed himself out, returning to his tower alone.  

 

* * *

 

Dorian wandered the castle walls after dinner. The sky was brushed pink and purple, and the wind swirling up from the lower yards was almost warm. He rubbed the back of his neck, letting the sheer vastness of the mountains around him clear his thoughts. 

The Inquisition had done what it was always going to do. It had sided with power, and in doing so would forever change the fate of the Free Marches. Starkhaven would conquer Kirkwall, and Prince Sebastian's holy quest would come its bloody end. He might even catch Anders, if he was lucky. 

So much for the dream of an Inquisition that defended the weak. So much for an Inquisition that was different. 

He supposed it had always been too much to hope for. Trevelyan was too young, too weak-willed. Dorian desperately wished he had thought of some council that might have made a difference, but Dorian was himself just one man, and a Tevinter deletant at that. There was nothing he could have done. 

He was walking along the outer wall, when a whisper floated under his ear.

“Hot, heated, holding, want to be—wish he was inside….”

Dorian spun around. Cole was perched on the wall, his skinny legs dangling over the yard far below.

“What are you on about now?” asked Dorian.

“I’m on the wall,” said Cole.

“I can see that.” Dorian walked up next to him. He was tempted to yank Cole back off the parapet, but he supposed the drop mattered little to a spirit. “Who are your listening to?”

“The Inquisitor,” said Cole. “He’s in the bath.”

“Oh?” Dorian turned his gaze up to the Inquisitor's tower. The last light of twilight had turned its windows opaque. 

“Clean, too clean, wants to be….dirty." Cole's blue eyes stared at him from under the brim of his hat. "He wishes you were there.”

“I-what?"

"He wishes you were in the bath with him."

Heat rushed up Dorian's neck. "He….you can tell that?”

“Yes. He’s touches himself the way he wishes you would, deep, deeper, deepening, a passage to the real him.”

Dorian's heart beat so hard it felt likely to punch itself out of his chest. “He wants me there?”

“Yes.”

“With him?’

“Yes.”

“Touching him?”

“Yes.”

Dorian rubbed his cheeks. This was one of those moments the Chantry mothers had warned him about. Here was temptation, right in the open, when he had every reason to say no. Getting involved with the Inquisitor was a terrible idea. It would ruin the Herald of Andraste's saintly reputation. The very notion was downright forbidden. 

But Dorian could never help but be drawn to the forbidden.

“Have a lovely evening, Cole,” he said.

“Have a lovely evening, Dorian,” said Cole.

Dorian took the stairs at a run. He forced himself to walk slower across the yard. He pretended to be talking to himself, playing the part of the absentminded mage wandering the castle making notes in his mind. The great hall was crowded with courtiers and petitioners mingling after dinner, and no one paid him much mind as he slunk carefully to the door at the back of the hall.

The fact that there were no guards in the Inquisitor’s tower always struck Dorian as the worst oversight imaginable in terms of castle security, but today he was grateful for it. He took the tower steps two at a time, until he was at the bedroom door at the top.

Dorian wiped his palms on his pants. How should he play this? _Hello, Inquisitor, a friendly spirit told me you were touching yourself while thinking about me?_ He raised a shaky hand and knocked on the door.

There was a long silence. Eventually, he heard the rumble of a brass tub and the thump thump of feet walking around it. “Yes?” the Inquisitor called.

“It’s me,” said Dorian.

There was an even longer silence. Eventaully, the foosteps came down what sounded like a staircase, and the door unlocked.

Trevelyan peeked out. His wet hair clung to his neck and ears, and the trousers he was wearing were blotted with damp spots. “Is there something you need?”

Sweat poured down Dorian's body. "I, ah..." 

Trevelyan blinked at him, his green eyes a little nervous, as if he was wondering what he had done wrong. It gave Dorian a sudden pang. What sort of life had Trevelyan led that he always expected to be reprimanded for everything?

“I was wondering if you’d like some company,” said Dorian.

“I’m in the middle of a bath right now.”

“I apologize. You just seem to be having….” Dorian let out a breath. “A difficult few days. I was wondering if you wanted to talk about it.”

Trevelyan opened the door wider and checked the hall. “Come in.”

Dorian stepped inside. The air was surprisingly warm in the tower, and the smell of crushed lilac and rose water assailed his nose. He followed Trevelyan up a little flight of stairs in an enormous bedroom. Between the roaring fire and the steaming tub, the air inside was nearly tropical.

Trevelyan stood awkwardly beside the bed. His chest was wet, and the thin black trail of hair that led down into his breeches was flattened with water. Dorian cleared his throat. “May I?” he asked, indicating a couch.

“Of course,” said Trevelyan. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Yes, please.”

Trevelyan disappeared into a little sideroom. He reemerged with a bottle and a glass. "You wouldn't happen to have a dagger, would you? I don't have a corkscrew." 

“Why don’t you just use magic?” asked Dorian.

For a moment, Trevelyan looked genuinely confused. “I suppose I never thought of that.”

Dorian shook his head. He took the bottle and with a little flick of his wrist, popped the cork out. “Do they truly teach you nothing in your Circles?”

“Mostly theory,” whispered Trevelyan.

Dorian glanced around the room. The tub, he saw, was heated by enchanted runes. How quaint. If a mage had used runes instead of his own magic back home, he’d be laughed out of the Magisterium. Dorian wondered what it would be like to grow up deathly afraid of doing something as mundane as heating your own bathwater. He poured himself a glass and sipped it. "Mmmm. Not bad. A little too _Orlesian_ for my tastes, but so is everything else around here." 

Trevelyan stood in the middle of the room, fondling the bottle.

“Dinner was a spectacle,” said Dorian. “Are you all right?”

Trevelyan gave a dry laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just can’t remember the last time anyone asked me that question.”

“That’s…” Terrible, a shame, a travesty. “How are you?”

Trevelyan set the bottle down. He paced for a moment, then sat down on the bed.

“Can I be frank with you?”

“Of course.”

“And it won’t leave this room?”

Dorian was a little hurt that Trevelyan felt the need to ask, but nodded.

"I feel like I've ruined everything," said Trevelyan. "Josephine and Leliana didn't even consult me about the Starkhaven announcement. They only told me twenty minutes before dinner that we were entering a formal alliance. I swear, they did it to make sure I wouldn't throw a tantrum."    

“But you are the Inquisitor.”

“No, not really.” Trevelyan’s hands were like pale spiders on his knees. “I just do what they tell me to do.”

Dorian could see that. It had been that way ever since Haven: everyone had been very comfortable giving Trevelyan orders, and it stemmed, Dorian sensed, from a social understanding that, as a mage, Trevelyan's natural disposition was to be as meek and pliant as possible. It was not a rule that was ever spoken, but it was definitely felt. Dorian had not missed the subtle twitches of annoyance that passed over people’s faces whenever he himself dared to light a fire with his hand, or, heaven forbid, voice his opinion.

Leliana and Josephine were not cruel people. Leliana might even be the best ally that the mages had in the Inquisition, but it was clear that they had grown up in a certain culture, and that culture was one where the people who knew best about magic were not the mages themselves.

If only the Inquisitor had been someone else—someone older and stronger who could push back against centuries of ignorance….

But the Maker had not seen fit to send that Inquisitor. Instead, He had sent Trevelyan, and the faithful took his meekness as a sign: this is what the Maker wants for mage-kind. This is what a mage should be.

“It's hard to believe this whole mess is about one man,” said Dorian. “Anders.”

“Yes.” And here, Trevelyan dropped his voice to a whisper. “To be honest, I don’t wholly blame him for what he did, but I can’t say that out loud. If I advocate for the man who blew up a Chantry, everyone will turn against us.” Trevelyan began to pick at the label on the bottle. “Nevermind that Elthina stood by for years while mages were raped and brutalized. No one cares about that part.”

“Can’t you just pretend to help the Prince?” asked Dorian. “Stall until the war is over?”

“I suggested as much to Leliana, but she thinks bringing Anders to justice might absolve the rest of the mage rebellion in the public eye. If the Inquisition is prepared to execute the mad mage who murdered Grand Cleric Elthina, then maybe people will be less skeptical about helping other mages.”

“And you disagree?”

“I think trying to persuade people to care about mages has never worked. They have to be forced to do it. If we execute Anders, the only thing it will do is say that we disapprove of violence against Chantry law, and that puts all of us in the rebellion under immediate censure.” Trevelyan took a sip of the wine and made a face. "I'm sorry. You don’t need to hear me whining like this." 

“It’s refreshing, actually,” said Dorian. “It makes you seem more human.”

"I see." Trevelyan's cheeks colored slightly. "I’ve been trying to be more like you lately.”

“Like me?”

“When we went to Redcliffe,” said Trevelyan, "you stood up to your father. If he had used that blood ritual on you, no one would have called it a crime. They would have felt sorry for him, for having had a son who threatened the legacy of his household. It must have been terrible for you to fight against that every day, and lonely, but you did it anyway. You stood up to him and lived your own life. You don’t bend for anyone. I find that admirable.”

Dorian was astonished. All that day in Redcliffe, he had never gotten the sense that Trevelyan cared one wit for his family situation. At best, Dorian considered it deeply embarrassing, and assumed Trevelyan felt the same way. That the young man had seen something honorable back then touched him.

Trevelyan rose and stood before the fire. "You're the only real friend I have around here."   

The wine was singing in Dorian's blood. Setting his glass, Dorian rose and crossed the room to Trevelyan. He set his fingertips on the bare skin of his back.

“Just a friend?"

"What do you think?" said Trevelyan, his voice thick. 

"I think that I never thanked you properly for helping me that day,” said Dorian.

“That's really not necessary." 

“I disagree.”

Dorian slowly turned him around. Trevelyan’s eyes were damp at the corners. Dorian brushed them with his thumb.

"I think you deserve to be thanked often," he said.

Before he could second-guess himself, Dorian pulled Trevelyan into his arms. Trevelyan inhaled and dropped the bottle. It rolled loudly across the flagstones under the bed.

“You deserve to be thanked again, and again, and again,” whispered Dorian, pressing his nose to Trevelyan’s hair, inhaling deeply the scent of lavender water and sweat. He ran his hands hard up and down Trevelyan's back, enjoying the contours of his wiry frame. Trevelyan for his part simply wrapped his arms around Dorian's waist and let himself be held, shivering head to toe.

"It's not fair what's been done to you, and even less fair the situation they've put you in," said Dorian. 

"It hasn't been all bad," murmured Trevelyan. 

"From my vantage, it's been deplorable." Dorian slid his hands down to the hem of Trevelyan's breeches. "You've tried to do the right thing, and your loyal companions have done nothing but-"

"Maybe we can skip talking about politics." Trevelyan grabbed his breeches and shoved them down. 

"Agreed," said Dorian, a second before Trevelyan pulled him down into a kiss. 

Time became syrupy after that. The Inquisitor was eager and unselfconscious, and Dorian was spoiled for choice. By the time they were both sweating, Dorian cursed and followed the line of moisture down Trevelyan's spine and between his buttocks. He ground them viciously between his hands, then slipped his fingers more tenderly along their crease. He was surprised to find Trevelyan's soft and pliant.

"Oh, naughty boy." Dorian couldn't help but grin. "You were having fun in your bath." 

"I--Maybe." Trevelyan's blush spread to his ears. 

"And who were you imagining?" asked Dorian knowingly, brushing a featherlight touch across his skin.

"Show me how to undo this,” said Trevelyan.

Dorian stripped himself naked in record speed. By then, Trevelyan was clinging to him like an octopus, the two of them almost fighting as they pushed hard against each other, squeezing every inch of warm flesh they could find.

“Do you want the bed or the tub?” asked Dorian.

“Tub, then bed.”

The water sloshed on the flagstones as they all but stumbled their way in. Trevelyan lay back clutching the brass sides of the tub with his legs spread. He was such a beautiful sight, with his bruised lips and panting chest, that Dorian cursed.

“We don’t have oil,” he said. Dammit all. He should have stopped by his room first when Cole told him what was going on.

“There,” said Trevelyan, and pointed.

There was a little clear vial sitting on the bookshelf. Dorian got out of the tub and retrieved it, and was surprised when he unstoppered it to find it three-quarters empty.

He flashed Trevelyan a wolfish grin. “So, the Herald isn’t as chaste and pure as the people say.”

“ _Tch_. Is that what they're really saying now?" Trevelyan let a hand dip below the water.

“How many men have you had up here?” asked Dorian, stepping back in the tub. He poured a generous amount of oil in his palm, catching Trevelyan’s mouth in a kiss. ‘How many men have fucked you, oh Herald?”

“Depends on the day of the week,” said Trevelyan against his lips.

Dorian groaned at that. The thought of this holy hope getting fucked on the regular like a whore did terrible things to him. The thought that he was going to counted among that number very soon did even worse things to him.

“Try not to be smug,” said Trevelyan.

“No promises,” said Dorian.

Dorian was pretty sure the tub moved twelve whole feet across the floor over the next hour. It was hard to imagine everyone in the castle not hearing Trevelyan’s cries as the water sloshed and the brass tub scraped its way across the flagstones. The tub was not the most comfortable place to fuck, but the water slapping hard against their two bodies more than made up for it, as did the way Trevelyan’s skin glistened when wet.

“I think my tailbone’s bruised,” said Trevelyan, gasping for breath.

“Allow me to make it up to you,” said Dorian.

Later, when they relocated to the bed, Dorian made love to him a little more tenderly. Trevelyan was a boneless mess by then, sprawled facedown with a pillow under his hips and a beautiful O on his lips. Dorian enjoyed the freedom the wide mattress gave him, working himself again and again between those gorgeous reddened cheeks.

It was a little obscene, he supposed, as he pushed himself flush against the Herald’s holy ass, but he found he didn't care. His legs shook, and his mouth was bone dry. He rubbed a hand up Trevelyan’s smooth back, pinching the flesh between neck and shoulder in a deep massage that made Trevelyan moan with pleasure.

When Trevelyan finally rolled over, his hair was soaked again against his brow. His eyes creased in a smile.

It was such a sweet smile that something dangerous lurched inside Dorian’s heart.

 

* * *

 

They spent the rest of the evening dozing and making love. Trevelyan’s appetites were voracious, and every time Dorian woke there he was, ready to clasp him and kiss him and hold him in his arms. Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an eager little morsel in bed, but he secretly hoped it would not be the last time.

 _Don’t go there_ , a little voice whispered. _Not again._

But as he lay with Trevelyan wrapped in his arms, it was hard to listen to the voice. Trevelyan was even lovelier asleep than he was awake. His lips were parted, and his brow creased slightly in dreams.

_It meant nothing. He’ll send you from his room in a few hours and none of this will have happened. Either that, or he’ll make you his toy._

Trevelyan stirred a little. His eyes opened, and he peered up at Dorian in the grey blue of dawn.

“All right?” he murmured.

“Yes,” said Dorian. “I was just admiring the threadcount of your sheets. You have the softest mattress in Skyhold. It’s hardly fair.”

“It’s yours, if you want it,” said Trevelyan, shutting his eyes again.

“I’ll be sure to tell the servants to drag it down the tower and all the way to the guest wing,” said Dorian. “They’ll be thrilled.”

Trevelyan burrowed a little deeper into Dorian’s arms. Dorian swallowed.

“Well, this has been fun,’ said Dorian, untangling himself. He set his feet on the floor and began pulling on his stockings. Where was the left one? “I thank you for your hospitality, but I doubt you need a scandal. I should make my way back to my own bed.”

Trevelyan sat up slowly. “If you must.”

Dorian did not look at him. One glance, and he’d crawl back into that bed and never get back out. “Hopefully, I haven’t tired you out too much to interfere with your duties today.”

"No," said Trevelyan.

"I'm sure the Starkhaveners won't mind you being late for breakfast. You could stand another bath, by the way. You stink." 

Trevelyan didn't respond. 

"In any case," Dorian said, gathering his smallclothes and trousers off the floor. "I'm sure everything will be fine-" 

A hand reached out and seized Dorian’s wrist. “Tell me what I should do.”

Dorian blinked and looked back at him. Trevelyan was sprawled out across the bed, his wiry, naked body pale as moonlight in the sheets. The archipelago of bruises that had blossomed on his hips, neck, and shoulders were shockingly dark.

“I can’t do this.” There were tears in Trevelyan’s eyes. “I can’t say yes and I can’t say no. I can’t defy my councilors and yet the mages despise me for not defying them. I don’t know what to do.”

A sob bubbled up Trevelyan’s throat. The young man let go of him and buried his face in his forearms. Dorian was hit by a wave of horror.

Our leader, the mighty Inquisitor. Chosen of Andraste.

Dorian set down his bundled clothes and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Come now,” he said, knowing how foolish the words were even as he said them. “It cannot be so daunting as that.”

“It is. No matter what I do, it’s the wrong choice to someone.”

“You’re in the wrong line of work if you think you can make everyone happy,” said Dorian, harshly.

Trevelyan rubbed his eyes hard with his wrists. Staring down at him, Dorian was reminded once again of just how young Trevelyan was. He tried to remember what it was like to be twenty, when so much of his inner life remained unformed. At times, it felt as if Dorian hadn’t truly become himself until he had turned thirty this past year—when his own mortality had begun to feel very real and the fears of his youth increasingly trivial. Life at twenty had been full of all-consuming doubt. Life at thirty was still about doubt, though he found he cared a great deal less about what other people thought about him.

“Trevelyan,” he said. “Max. Look at me.”

He had never used the Inquisitor’s name before. Trevelyan lifted his head. His face was blotchy and red, and his eyelashes were spiky with tears. Dorian wanted to wipe the tears from his face and hold him in his arms, but now was not the time for coddling.

“You cannot be afraid to fail,” said Dorian. “You will let someone down no matter what you do. You will miscalculate, and lose, and embarrass yourself terribly. And when that happens, you will find the world has not ended, but that the work continues. In time, the failure will not seem such a terrible price to pay.”

Trevelyan sniffed loudly. The young man was listening, but Dorian wondered how much of what he was saying would truly sink in. You couldn’t teach wisdom, but maybe, just maybe, he could push him in the right direction.

“No matter what you decide, you must decide,” said Dorian. “Defy Cullen. Spit in Leliana’s face. Slap that stupid headdress off the Revered Mother’s head tell her to go twaddle Andraste. Decide and be done with it. The consequences might be terrible, but there has never been a man better situated to weather a fall than you are right now. Lead us. Decide. Move. Do anything but torture yourself in indecision like this. If you cannot make a single decision to save your life, no one will respect you. You want to be brave? Then _act_ brave.”

Trevelyan stared at him. He looked genuinely startled to be spoken to in such a manner. “It's as simple as that?”

“Nothing is simple. But if you want to be a leader, you must lead.”

"And you would stand beside me, no matter what I do?”

“I have stood with you since Haven,” said Dorian. “I could hardly count myself as your friend if I deserted you now.”

Trevelyan wiped his face on a pillowcase. He rolled off the bed and disappeared into the side room, shutting the door behind him.

Dorian sighed. He stared at the wreckage of their clothing on the floor and the stains on the soiled bed sheets. _Now you’ve gone and done it,_ he thought. _Not only did you fuck the Herald, but you quite possibly just pushed him over the edge into doing something reckless._

He wondered which of those crimes Sister Nightingale would be more likely to murder him for.

Trevelyan returned from the washroom. His face was clearer, though his eyes were still puffy. He pulled on a pair of white smallclothes.

“I need to get ready for the meeting,” he said. “Thank you, Dorian, for everything.”

“Of course.” Dorian stood and gathered the rest of his clothes. They dressed in awkward silence, neither looking at the other.

“Well. Good luck,” said Dorian, and made for the stairs.

Something at the top step made him stop, however. Gripping the newel, he turned back and saw Trevelyan standing in front of the mirror. The young man was touching the cold glass, his face a mask of contemplation. or perhaps despair.

Dorian walked back to Trevelyan and wrapped his arms around him. Hooking his chin over his shoulder, he gave him a reassuring squeeze.

“Knock 'em dead,” he said.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Dorian returned to his quarters. He was sticky with oil and foul with the stench of sex, so he called for a servant to bring him a tub for a bath.

Soaking in the hot water, he allowed himself to analyze his night with Trevelyan with a more critical eye. No doubt the Inquisitor had been distraught and in desperate need of comfort. Dorian had been happy to provide that. There was no reason to assume that things would go any further.

He closed his eyes and remembered the way Trevelyan had traced a sleepy hand down his side. It had been a hesitant touch, almost chaste after their hours of furious rutting, and yet that one little touch, in all its tender questioning, had licked desire down Dorians’ body like an electric whip. It had not been the all-consuming inferno of earlier, but a bone-deep ache that made him want to weep. What could Trevelyan had been hesitant about? That Dorian would not welcome being held again? That Dorian would push his hand away and kick him out of his own bed?

 _How innocent his heart_ , he thought to himself. _And you are a cradle robber._

He submerged his hair in the water and gazed up at the ceiling. Trevelyan's eyes had been so sweet and blue. It had been easy to imagine, in that post-coital moment, that this was the beginning of something new: that he might grow used to lying beside this man and holding him in his arms. Dangerous thoughts and unwelcome.

 _It was one night,_ thought Dorian. If Trevelyan wants more, _he will have to come to me. I will not make a fool of myself again. Not here._

Dorian sighed and fished the soap out of the bottom of the basin. None of this mattered in the grand scheme of things. Trevelyan was dealing with matters of state that would decide the fate of nations. He didn’t have time for this kind of lovesick nonsense.

 _You should be worrying about the advice you gave him this morning_ , he thought, grimly. _Not the tumble you gave him last night._

There came a knock at the door. Dorian stopped scrubbing himself. Had he ever had a visitor before?

“Yes?” he called.

“My Lord Pavus,” said a voice. “The Inquisitor has requested you in the war room.”

Dorian’s stomach turned to lead.

_Now you’ve done it. They’re finally kicking you out. Either they’ve realized you buggered Andraste’s Herald or he’s blabbered that you told him to do something foolish._

“Just one moment.” Dorian rose out of the tub and dried himself. It was with numb fingers that he dressed himself and arranged his hair. Opening the door, he was greeted with an elven servant leaning against the wall. The elf escorted him downstairs and across the great hall to the war room.

To Dorian’s surprise, Cassandra and Solas were waiting outside the door.

“You as well?” asked Solas. To Dorian’s delight, he sounded annoyed.

“I take it you were roused from your morning baths also?” asked Dorian.

Cassandra was in her training leather and smelled of sweat. Solas had a drop of paint on the tip of one ear, but otherwise was unruffled.

“You will await for His Worship to call upon you,” said the servant and left. The hallway was freezing, due to a large portion of the wall being missing.

Not thirty seconds later, the door opened. Trevelyan poked his head out. “Please, come in.”

They followed him inside. Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana stood in their respective places behind the war table. Revered Mother Ramira from Starkhaven and her two attendant Chantry sisters stood off to the side, as did Mother Giselle. The four Chantry women eyed the newcomers uneasily, giving Dorian the narrowest look.

“Is there a reason for this intrusion?” asked the Revered Mother.

“Yes,” said Trevelyan. He waved his three companions to stand along the opposite wall. “I would like to make a statement.”

Josephine cut Leliana a sharp glance. Obviously, none of this had been discussed. Dorian, for his part, studied Trevelyan. The Inquisitor’s face was a mask and impossible to read.

“Over the past few weeks, there has been a certain tension in our negotiations,” said Trevelyan. “It has forced me to reevaluate the future of the Inquisition.”

There was an ominous note to that. Cullen cleared his throat.

“Mother Ramira,” said Trevelyan. “You came to us on behalf of Prince Sebastian to request aid for Starkhaven. You asked us to lend you our troops to help end Prince Vael's siege of Kirkwall. More than that, you wished us to give the full extent of our resources to help apprehend the mage known as Anders.”

“We would be honored to receive the Inquisition’s help,” said Mother Ramira.

“That’s unfortunate, because it won’t be happening.”

Josephine gasped. Leliana stepped around the war table and said, “What the Inquisitor means—”

Treveylan raised a hand for silence. To Dorian’s amazement, Leliana stopped talking.

Mother Ramira’s face had gone dark. “I would think carefully before you make that decision final, Your Worship. You do not wish to make an enemy of Starkhaven.”

“No, I don’t,” said Trevelyan. “But only because I would take no pleasure in putting my boot to your Prince’s arse and sending him running back home.”

The silence in the room could have heard a pin drop.

“How.” Ramira crimsoned. “How dare you. Do you really think your puny mercenary band can afford to lose the favor of the most powerful city in the Free Marches?”

“We can, actually,” said Trevelyan. “Because we have one thing you don’t.”

“And what would that be?”

Trevelyan held up a hand. With a casual flick of his wrist, he wreathed his fingers in flame.

Mother Ramira swore. The sister beside her let out of a holy prayer. Cullen’s sword arm twitched, and it was only Cassandra’s hand clapping down on his wrist that caused him to halt.

“You dare.” There was nothing civil now in Mother Ramira's tone now. “Seeker Pentaghast, Commander Rutherford, is this how your Inquisitor conducts himself? Has he no shame?”

“I have shame,” said Trevelyan, calmly. “Just not about this.”

Dorian could only gape. Who was this man and where had he been hiding all this time? Trevelyan had always been ferocious in battle, but so were many men and women when put to the test. Off the field, he had always been a shy little mouse. Where had this steel come from?

Trevelyan snuffed out the flame in his palm. “Tell you what. I’ll give Vael a month to clear out of Kirkwall. I’ll give him an additional month to end his petulant revenge quest and aid us in saving the world. That seems more than fair.”

Ramira sneered. “And if he finds your terms laughable?”

Trevelyan shrugged. “Then I’ll come and bathe him and his army in fire.”

Ramira’s eyebrow twitched. There was actual hesitation there.

 _She has no idea how many mages we have. She has no inkling about magic or anything,_ Dorian realized. The Inquisition could, theoretically, send mages to scrape the Prince off the field and send him packing, but it would mean diverting a great deal of their troops. Not that Ramira knew that. Her education on the nature of magic, Dorian suspected, began and ended with Threnodies.

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” said Ramira. “We had hoped your handlers would steer you into making the wise decision, but apparently they have been ensorcelled by you.” She turned her sneer on the war councilors. “You stand behind him in this? You would let this apostate and his little rabble of rebels lead you into blasphemy? I thought you had a better leash on him than this.”

“He’s not a dog,” said Dorian.

Every head turned to look at him. They had apparently forgotten he was there.

“Ah yes, and there he is, the serpent in the orchard,” said Ramira. “No doubt you put him up to this." 

"Lord Pavus had nothing to do with my decision,” said Trevelyan. “And you have been given your terms. It is time for you to leave.”

Ramira folded her hands into her voluminous sleeves. Her eyes cut sideways to Giselle, who had been silent this entire time and remained so now. “Is this your answer as well, Sister Nightingale? You would stand idly by as your Inquisitor tears down the Circles and returns us to slavery?" 

Dorian could see the rapid calculations going on in each of the war councilors' heads. Leliana’s was the most steady. Cullen’s had only to meet Cassandra’s eyes before giving a stiff nod. Josephine, curiously, seemed the most torn, but a gentle touch from Leliana decided her.

“It is,” said Leliana. “We will provide you escort back to the siege lines outside of Kirkwall. Maker be with you, Revered Mother.”

"I have no interest in slavery,” said Trevelyan. “But as for the Circles—” He shrugged. “Tell your Prince I won’t be helping him rebuild the one in Starkaven.”

“Mark my words,” said Ramira. “The Maker walks with those who follow His holy order, not heretics who presume themselves demigods.”

"Try me," said Trevelyan. 

And all hell broke loose.

Ramira’s hands flew from her sleeves and flung knives. Trevelyan ducked. At that same instant, something small and round hit the ground from inside Ramira's robe and hissed out a jet of smoke.

The room became pitch black. A bolt of lightning cut through the darkness and into the chest of figure who collapsed face first on the ground. A sword rang out as it struck the wall, and someone screamed.

Dorian felt the air shift behind his neck. He ducked and rolled. As he did, he shot out a hand and released a gout of flame. A woman shrieked, then toppled over like a scarecrow, her eye sockets and open mouth aglow with orange fire. Dorian crawled quickly on all fours until his head cracked against the war table. Stars dancing in his eyes, and he felt along the war table's tree root-like legs until he pulled himself under it.

Someone stabbed him in the hand. He hissed and was about to douse them in flame, when Josephine’s familiar golden sleeves appeared before him.

“I’m so sorry!” she shouted. A bloody letter opener was clutched her fist.

“No worries,” he said. “Stay behind me.”

There was more shouting in the dark. Dorian could not see anything more than a foot in front of him. The dead body was still burning merrily as a log on the floor, but other than that, there was no visibility.

After a long minute, there was silence.

Dorian's heart pounded. Either everyone was dead, or they were all standing perfectly still so as to not give their location away.

A cold steel point pressed into his neck.

He glanced sideways, and saw Josephine gaping in horror at Ramira. The Revered Mother was crouched beside her, her left ear cleaved off, blood running freely down her red robes.

“Up,” she hissed.

Dorian reached for his magic, but the stiletto pushed harder.

“None of that,” she said. _“Up.”_

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him to his feet.

“I have your Tevinter whore, Inquisitor,” she called. Her voice echoed loudly around the chamber. “And I will be taking him with a fresh horse from your castle.”

No answer. Dorian was being dragged insistently toward the door. He could overpower her, but she was quick and a bard, and no doubt the dagger at his throat was poisoned.

“I knew you’d spoil everything from that first day in the garden,” she hissed in his ear. “He could have been my puppet, Starkhaven’s puppet, but you went and put your Imperium ideas in his head.”

Dorian swallowed. They were almost at the door now. He could see the outline of a figure approaching through the smoke.

“Not another step!” Ramira jerked the stiletto up so that it was pointing at Dorian’s left eye. “I’ll put his eyes out if you come any closer. I’ll keep him blind in a box for the rest of his days if you don’t stop where you are.”

The figure did stop. The silence in that moment was incredible.

Dorian could hear Ramira pawing behind her along the door with her free hand. She at last found the handle and grunted as she tried to open it.

“I would not recommend that,” said a low voice. The smoke was beginning to clear. The figure stood before them, a low flame burning in his hand.

“Trevelyan,” said Ramira. “You cannot possibly hope to accomplish anything.”

The figure in the smoke said nothing.

“Do you think the armies or Orlais will rally behind an apostate who wishes to tear down their most sacred institutions? Who will give you swords? Or grain? Who will let you and your filth ride down their roads and shelter in their castles?”

The smoke cleared. The figure stood there, a mage in the thinning dark, as a beam of light cut through the dark and revealed him.

It was Solas.

Dorian blinked. Ramira stiffened in surprise behind him. That one moment was all it took.

The air shifted to their left. Ramira turned, stiletto raised, before a glowing green palm slapped over her face.

Dorian turned away. Gore splattered across his neck. He forced himself to stand perfectly still, even as the body of the dead woman toppled and fell across his feet.

“Are you all right?” Two warm, bloody hands found Dorian’s face and turned it upward. Trevelyan was beside him, his eyes red and puffy from the smoke.

“Josephine stabbed me,” said Dorian, and gave over to unhinged giggles.

 

* * *

 

Dorian’s hand mended quickly enough. A visit to the healing hut had an itchy poultice bandaged around his wound with strict instructions not to scratch it or get it wet. From the way the mage scolded him, you’d think Dorian had done this to himself.

Josephine at least was contrite. She sent a card of apology to his room along with a bottle of wine. She likely would have invited him to sup with her for days afterward as an additional apology, but in the aftermath of the battle in the war room she was rather busy.

The messengers rode in and out of Skyhold at all hours of the day. The content of the messages they carried was unknown, save that Prince Sebastian Vael was displeased that his holy ambassador and her delegation had been slaughtered inside the walls of Skyhold.

“Do you think he’ll do anything about it?” asked Dorian to Cassandra, while they ate from a basket of green apples against the wall of the training yard. Despite the tension in the air, commerce remained strong, and merchants continued to flow in and out of the castle.

“Difficult to say,” said Cassandra, biting into an apple. “Kirkwall is a port town, and no doubt Starkhaven wished the reap the rewards of annexing it. But a Kirkwall besieged is a Kirkwall that cannot send goods to other cities in the Free Marches. Prince Vael may believe his cause is righteous, but he has wearied the patience of his lords and neighboring city-states.”

“And as for the Inquisitor?”

Cassandra sighed. “We are feared and loathed in equal measure. Trevelyan has not made friends with his public declarations of allying himself with mages and elves.”

“But?”

“But neither are we the ragtag band of frightened faithful shivering in the snow outside Haven. The world is torn asunder by rifts and demons. The people cry out for a savior. Times are changing, and there are those who would rather hedge their bets with us than with a surly prince who has squandered his city’s coffers hunting a single mage.”

Dorian studied the green apple in his hand. It was bright and shiny against the blotted bandages around his hand. “Did Trevelyan do the right thing, then?”

“Only time will tell,” said Cassandra. “But even if the decision was wrong, it was a strong one. People have taken notice. The Inquisition feels for the first time like it has a leader. Though I suppose you deserve some of the credit for that.”

“I didn’t tell him to do anything! At least nothing _that_ specific.”

“I am sure.” 

Dorian rested his head against the wall. For the past week, it had somehow gotten around that the Inquisitor’s pet Tevinter had whispered instructions in his ear, poisoning his mind and turning him against Revered Mother Ramira and Good Prince Sebastian Vael. It was the kind of rumor that might have destroyed the Inquisition from the inside out, if Leliana, Josephine, and Mother Giselle had not mounted an effective counternarrative against it.

Now it was being said that Dorian had been merely a bystander, there to flail and shriek helplessly at the treachery of the deceitful Revered Mother who had tried to murder the Herald of Andraste. As it turned out, the people prefered the story where Dorian was a foppish nitwit twice as much as they did the one where he was a traitor.

“In any case,” said Cassandra, “he seems to listen to you. You are good man, Dorian, and a good friend. I have no doubt that you will give him wise council. But be warned—”

“Yes, yes, everyone is watching. Knives in the dark, etcetera.”

 

* * *

 

It was not until the final messenger from Stakhaven left, carrying a bundle of sealed velum under his arm, that Trevelyan summoned Dorian to his quarters.

Dorian knocked on the door. His palms were sweating. He had not had the chance to speak with the Inquisitor since the assassination attempt. Trevelyan had been far too busy, and it would been unseemly to approach him in the aftermath. They were not lovers, after all, and Dorian’s place in his inner circle depeneded entirely on his magical expertise and battle prowess. It would not do to approach the Inquisitor as if he was more than a friend.

It was for that reason that Dorian’s heart pounded as a voice called, “enter!”

He opened the door and went up the steps. Trevelyan sat at his desk behind a mountain of paperwork.

“I take it murdering a Chantry mother inside your very own war room has had some negative consequences,” said Dorian.

“Some,” said Trevelyan. “But it was the first real diplomatic test for the Inquisition. We’ve managed to weather the storm.”

A muscle inside Dorian’s chest unclenched. He hadn't realized how tense he had been since the assassination attempt until now. “Truly?”

“Yes. Sebastian Vael may have been displeased at the death of Mother Ramira, but it was nothing compared to our displeasure at having an assassin in our midst at his behest. He apparently had no clue that Ramira had murderous intentions toward me, and in admitting so has lost face. He’s become quite apologetic.”

“That’s not the reaction I expected.”

“Oh, I’m sure he wanted to spin it differently. That the evil mage Inquisitor murdered Ramira, that the other city states of the Free Marches should band together to tear us down. But we’ve called his bluff. He’s desperate, and that means he’s still begging for our aid. We’re about to declare our official support for Kirkwall, and in doing so win the support of Hasmal, Markham, and Tantervale, all of whom are starved for trade.”

Trevelyan set his quill down and ran his hands through his hair. “And to think, I almost let everyone talk me into giving in to him.”

Dorian wanted to walk around the table and put his arms around Trevelyan’s shoulders. “But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Trevelyan let his hands fall to his desk. He looked older somehow. The black locks that fell messily around his face were quite distinguished. “I owe you a great deal of thanks."

“Oh?” Dorain let a suggestive lilt creep into his voice; he couldn’t help it. "For anything in particular?”

“You gave me the push I needed. All this time, no one ever spoke to me the way you did. I was so afraid of letting someone down that I didn’t do anything. That was poor leadership. It seems so obvious now, but….thank you.”

Trevelyan rose and came around the desk. For one wild moment, Dorian thought he was going to kiss him, but Trevelyan merely stuck out his hand.

“You’ve given me excellent council, and I’d like to reward it. How would you like to be one of my advisors?”

“Am I not one already?”

“This would be a more official role.”

Dorian’s heart soared. Ever since he had come to the Inquisition, he had craved recognition—recognition for his work, for his mind, for the sacrifices he had made to be here. But as the moment cooled, so did his enthusiasm.

“I don’t think that wise,” he said.

Trevelyan’s face fell a little. “No?”

“No. I’m happy to help you in whatever way you need, Inquisitor, but frankly, I’m poison to your image. You’re facing enough obstacles without me making it harder for you.”

“I don’t agree with that.”

“Well too bad, because it’s my final answer,” said Dorian. “I’ll follow you into battle and aid your mages in their research, but beyond that, I’m afraid I must decline.”

Trevelyan let his hand fall. A wry smile crossed his face. ‘You’re a better man than you know, Dorian Pavus.”

“Oh, the best,” said Dorian, with his heart in his throat.

They stood awkwardly there in the center of the room, barely two feet between them. Now would be the moment to clear that space. Now would be the moment to take matters into his own hands.

But Trevelyan was not the innocent boy he was all those weeks before. Something had shifted between them.

“Can I ask you something?” said Dorian. “At the risk of tarnishing all those wonderful things you just said about me?”

“Go on.”

“About the night we shared,” said Dorian. His mouth was suddenly very dry. “I won’t ask you for anything else, Inquisitor, but I would like to know where things stand between us.”

“Where would you like things to stand?”

“All on me, then?”

“Should it be all on me?”

Oh, not the tractable boy he was before at all.

“I would be lying if I said my mind has not returned to that night,” said Dorian, carefully.

Trevelyan waited, not saying anything.

“I won’t do anything to damage your reputation, or the Inquisition’s, and there would be whispers, but, perhaps, if we are discreet…”

“Let me get this straight. You won’t be on my war council, but you want to be my lover.”

“Well….” Dorian’s voice petered out. His mind was still stuck on the word 'lover.' “If that is where you wish us to go.”

“Dorian,” said Trevelyan. “Decide.”

“Oh, that is impudent.” Dorian forced his breathing to slow. “I like you, Inquisitor. I won’t beg for your company, but I would like more of it.”

Trevelyan closed the distance between them. His arms came around Dorian and pulled him close. His lips were soft and warm, and it was a long time before Dorian remembered to breathe.

“What time I have is yours,” whispered Trevelyan, when he at last pulled away.

“Oh. Good,” said Dorian, and spoke no more after that.

 

* * *

 

“Hail him, the Herald of Andraste!”

Trevelyan gave a curt nod. The faithful no longer were as handsy with him as they once were. His posture had become too menacing for that. They kept their distance more now, bowing and curtsying when necessary. Trevelyan seemed happier that way. There was certainly no more foot washing.

“I’ve noticed that they spit at you less,” said Trevelyan, sitting across from Dorian at the garden table, holding a clipboard with paperwork.

“It must be your terrible influence rubbing off on me,” said Doran, sipping a glass of wine. “I actually heard someone in the hall call me 'Hessarian Reborn' the other day.”

“They do know that Hessarian put a sword through Andraste’s heart, yes?” said Trevelyan.

“No doubt they’re choosing to ignore that part. I do enjoy being the Good Tevinter, in any case.”

Trevelyan chuckled. “Don't think it will last."

"Why not?" asked Dorian. 

"Because," said Trevelyan, raising his hand to give Fiona a wave. "You're going to help me shove that hideous pink statue of Andraste off the mountain tomorrow."

"The faithful won't like that." 

"No," said Trevelyan. "But they'll deal with it."

Dorian smiled and turned his attention back to the garden, where the first spring flowers were beginning to bloom.

 


End file.
